Monday, 14 February 2011

John Keats (31/10/1795 - 23/2/18) - The Nature of Love

Hi Folks , it's that time of year again when people get dizzy and do stupid things. I personally am an unashameable old romantic, so on this silly day thought I'd post this letter from another incurable one, John keats. A letter that really shows the depths of John Keats utter devotion to his one true love Fanny Browne.
Unfortunately shortly after they met in 1818 he became aware that he had TB and would never be able to marry. His love was intense, obsessive, jealous and sadly unfulfilled. In 1821 he left for Rome, where he died .
Theirs a link at bottom to earlier post I did on John Keats, hope you enjoy, don't get too sad though, take care and carry on, and remember fight the cuts.


My sweet Girl

Your letter gave me more delight, than anything in the world but yourself could do; indeed I am almost astonished that any absent one should have the luxurious power over my senses which I feel. Even when I am not thinking of you I recieve your influence and a tenderer nature steeling upon me. All my thoughts, my unhappiest days and nights, have I find not at all cured me of my love of Beauty, but made it so intense that I am miserable that you are not with me: or rather btreathe in that dull sort of patience that cannot be called Life. I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel,I did not believe in it; my Fancy was affraid of it, lest it should burn me up.But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures. You mention 'horrid people' and ask me whether it depend upon them, whether I see you again. Do understand me, my love, in this. I have so much of you in my heart that I must turn Mentor when I see a chance of harm beffalling you. I would never see anything but Pleasure in your eyes, love on your lips, and Happinness in your steps. I would wish to see you among those amusements suitable to your incinations and spirits; so that our loves might be a delight in the midst of Pleasures agreeable enough, rather than a resource from vexations and cares. But I doubt much, in case of the worst, whether I shall be philosopher enough to follow my own lessons: If I saw my resolution give you a pain I could not. Why may I not speak of your Beauty, since without that I could never have lov'd you. I cannot concieve any beginning of such love as I have for you but Beauty. There may be a sort of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the highest respect and can admire it in others: but it has not the richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment of love after my own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, though to my own endangering; if you could be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its Poer. You say you are affraid I shall think you do not love me - in saying this you make me ache the more to be near you. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here, I do not pass a day without sprwaling some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; and here I must confess, that, (since I am on the subject,) I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women whom I would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel. I have seen your Comet, and only wish it was a sign that poor Rice would get well whose illness makes him rather a melancholy companion: and the more so as to coquer his feelings and hide them from me, with a forc'd Pun. I kiss'd your writing over in the hope you had indulg'd me by leaving a trace of honey-What was your dream? Tell it me and I will tell you the interpretation thereof.

Ever yours, my love!
John Keats

Do not accuse me of delay - we have not here an opportunity of sending letters every day. Write speedily.

The letters of John Keats edited by Maurice Forman (OUP) 1947.

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